The Promise (17 page)

"I'm not sure of anything, Pete. But at the moment
I'm inclined to believe Ginny and Loralee. Besides the set up at
Corabeth's was the same. Right down to the laudanum."

"So then there's got to be a reason." The lights of
Clune shone in the distance as they rode down the crest of the
hill.

"Loralee and Ginny seem to think it's got something
to do with my father's death."

Pete bent his head, a muscle working in his jaw, a
sure sign he was thinking it all through. "Don't see how, unless it
has something to do with Loralee."

"Loralee?"

"Yup. Arless said it was Loralee."

Patrick's patience was growing thin. "Pete, I've got
no idea what you're talking about."

Pete let out an exasperated sigh. "In the Irish Rose,
we were talking about Duncan, and Arless said he'd heard about it
from Corabeth."

A light went on. "And Corabeth got it from
Loralee."

"And here I was thinkin' you were slow." A crooked
smile spread across his face, his teeth shining white in the
darkness.

"Very funny." Patrick pulled his jacket tighter,
shivering in the brisk night air. "I still don't see why any of
that would interest Amos."

"Silver."

"What? You think that Amos killed my father because
he claimed to have found silver?"

"Men have been killed for a helluva lot less. And
Striker seemed to think that it was a good enough motive for
Michael."

"He did, didn't he?" Patrick frowned. "But then how
the hell do Corabeth and Loralee figure into it?"

"If Arless happened to run his mouth in front of the
sheriff, then I'd say that would explain a whole lot."

"This is all a pretty big stretch, Pete." He stopped
as a shard of fear pierced his gut. "But if there's any truth in
this at all, then Loralee could be in real danger." Patrick swung
his horse around.

"Whoa there, boy. Where ya goin'?"

"Back to town, I've got to warn her."

Pete leaned out and grabbed the reins. "Not tonight.
Save your heroing for tomorrow. I told you before, ain't safe out
here at night, especially for Macphersons."

Patrick clamped his jaw shut and glared at the older
man.

"You told me yourself Striker's gone. So your Loralee
will be safe until morning."

"She's not my Loralee." He ran a hand through his
hair, wishing he could ask Michael what to do. God, how he needed
his brother.

She couldn't breathe.

Cara opened her eyes, then blinked trying to clear
her vision. The room was full of fog, orange fog, and it was
choking her. She coughed violently, trying to clear her lungs,
struggling to make sense of the swirling haze.

She couldn't move, something heavy was holding her
down, partially blocking her vision.

Above her, she could see nothing but the fog. Light
flickered through it, almost as if it were alive. She fought for
another breath. It was hot. Really hot.

She tried to clear her mind, to remember what
happened. Everything was eerily quiet, too quiet. The light
continued to dance against the fog. Her brain scrambled to find
logic where seemingly there was none. Suddenly it clicked.

Fire.
The dancing light was fire
. She sucked
in a breath, the acrid stench of smoke filling her lungs and
stinging her eyes. Oh God, the fog was smoke.

She tried to stay calm, to hold her panic at bay, but
she could feel her heart beating a staccato rhythm against her
chest. Closing her eyes, she forced her breathing to stay shallow
and even, trying to remember what she was supposed to do.

Stop. Drop. Roll. Stop. Drop. Roll.

The words ran through her brain, a sing-song phrase,
taunting her with the impossible. Stopping and dropping seemed to
be
fait d'accompli
, but rolling was evidently out of the
question. Unless someone could move whatever it was that was
pinning her down. Where the hell was the bionic man when she needed
him?

Hysteria welled inside her, threatening to take away
the small thread of sanity she had left. Digging her fingernails
into her palms, she fought to calm herself. She had to think.
Think
.

A sharp popping noise, followed by shattering glass
broke the stillness. The light intensified, and with a low whoosh,
flames shot out above her head, building quickly until a canopy of
fire billowed across the ceiling. Fascinated, she stared as it
spread, and then almost instantaneously vanished again.

Perversely, the fire itself calmed her as nothing
else had and she forced herself to take inventory of the situation.
She could feel her toes. And if she strained she could even see her
left arm. Her fingers wiggled reassuringly.

One of the crates was lying on her arm. Gritting her
teeth, she pushed against it as hard as she could. It rose a little
and then toppled over, leaving her arm free. She lifted it
gingerly, flexing the muscles, relieved to see that it wasn't
injured.

She pushed her hair out of her eyes, surprised to see
her hand come away covered with blood. Even little head wounds
bleed like the dickens, a voice in her mind soothed. She crinkled
her forehead. It didn't hurt. Surely that was a good sign.

The canopy was back. She watched mesmerized as the
flames writhed above her.

A small explosion somewhere behind her, brought her
sharply back to reality. She had to get out of here.

She tried to push against the weight on top of her,
her hand recognizing the smooth metal of a filing cabinet. It was
warm to the touch, but not hot. Not yet, the little voice
whispered. She coughed again, grimacing. Her throat was raw from
breathing the rancid smoke. At least she was trapped on the floor.
There was more air down here.

She tried to look at the filing cabinet, but all she
could make out clearly was the tip of her nose, the effort making
her cross-eyed. She gave up. The thing must be jammed against
something else. If it had landed on her directly, surely it would
have crushed her.

Something was braced against her head. When she tried
to move, she could feel it shift. Better to hold still. The smoke
seemed thicker now. She worked to keep her breathing shallow, her
eyes darting back and forth, watching for the fire, waiting for it
find her, devour her.

Fear threatened to consume her again. She watched as
a burning ember dropped from the ceiling onto the wooden floor. It
smoldered, but didn't catch and she felt an absurd rush of relief.
She tried to move her right arm, but it was securely pinned at her
side. She was trapped. The only thing she could do now was wait,
and hope that someone would come.

Michael.

His face filled her mind, and she felt immediately
calmer, almost as if he was actually there with her. Surely fate
hadn't sent him all the way through time, only to let him watch her
die.

She shook her head, biting down on her lip, the
resulting pain pulling her from her morbid thoughts. This kind of
thinking just wouldn't do. She had to hang on. Michael would come.
He'd saved her before and it looked like he was going to have to
save her again. She closed her eyes, blocking out the menacing
fire. All she had to do was wait.

*****

Flames shot between broken shards of glass in
the front window. Michael was aware of people in the street, of
shouts and cries for help, but all he could focus on was the fire
raging inside the gallery.

Cara. He had to get to Cara.

As he ran for the front door, a wave of heat rolled
across the sidewalk, enveloping him. Swearing, he backed away,
hands in front of his face. A shrill wail filled the air. He wasn't
certain what a modern day fire wagon would look like, but he
recognized a siren when he heard one. He released a breath. Help
was on the way.

Turning back to the building, he watched as smoke and
sparks fill the night sky, obliterating the stars. The wailing was
nearer now, and down the street, he could see flashing red
lights.

With a shattering crash, a window exploded, sending
bits of glass tinkling down on the street like rain. He whipped
around, fear lashing through him. He had to act now. There wasn't
time to waste. Sprinting around the corner of the building, he
prayed that the gallery had a back door.

The backside of the gallery glowed with firelight,
but the fire had yet to gain a death hold here. A single
streetlight lit the area around a small ramp leading up to a back
door. Sending a chorus of thank-yous heavenward, he ran up the ramp
and grabbed the doorknob, relieved to find that it was cool.

He pulled. Nothing happened. The door was locked.
Cursing, he rammed a shoulder into the door. It didn't budge. He
stepped back, his mind racing. There had to be a way in. A bush
next to the ramp waved in the draft from the fire. Something behind
it sparkled in the light. A window.
There was a window
.
Bending down, he picked up a discarded piece of wood, and swinging
it with all the force he could muster, slammed it into the
windowpane. Glass flew, and mindless of the remaining shards, he
forced his way through the gaping hole.

Dropping to the floor on the other side, he removed
his jacket and held it over his face like a shield. The air was
heavy with smoke and he could see flames shooting from the ceiling
and walls. "Cara." He called her name, then waited, ears straining
for an answer.

"Cara, can you hear me?" Not now, his heart pleaded.
Oh please, not now. They'd only just found each other. Surely they
wouldn't be separated again so soon. Not like this. "Cara." He
screamed, trying to pitch his voice above the roar of the fire.

A small noise separated itself from the bedlam around
him. Heart pounding, he ran in the direction of the sound, skidding
to a stop in front of a smoldering mound of debris. Cara's desk
leaned drunkenly against the wall, a metal cabinet of some kind
balanced against the edge. Two empty packing crates lay next to the
desk, one upended and the other slanting against the cabinet. The
end of a screen protruded from beneath the cabinet, holding it off
the floor.

"Cara?" He waited, his heart fluttering in his
throat.

"Michael?" Her voice was low but audible.

He grabbed the free standing crate and tossed it
aside. An arm extended from beneath the cabinet. "Cara, honey, can
you move your arm?"

Her fingers wiggled and he strained to see her face
in the shadows underneath the cabinet. He moved the other crate and
knelt down, his face close to the floor. Her lips lifted in the
tiniest of smiles. "I knew you'd come."

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Hold still,
I'm going to try and move the cabinet."

A sound like thunder filled the air as a section of
the ceiling caved in, sending flames shooting down from the floor
above. Michael felt a rush of fear. There wasn't much time.

"Hurry," Cara whispered, echoing his thoughts.

He stood up and wrapped his arms around the cabinet.
Bracing himself, he sucked in a breath and pulled up, stepping
backward as the heavy cabinet lifted. Once he was certain it was
clear of Cara, he dropped it, the resounding thud shaking the
floor.

Kneeling beside her again, he lifted the screen off
her. It had probably saved her life. Her face was covered with
blood, but a quick examination reassured him that she only had a
small cut at her hairline. "Can you move?"

"I think so."

He put a hand behind her to brace her back, and she
sat up slowly. He ran his hands along her torso and legs, searching
for injury, relieved to find none. The fire was growing hotter,
feeding on the gallery in frenzied gluttony. The screen beside them
burst into flame.

Michael, scooped Cara into his arms, holding her
tightly against his chest. "What do you say we get the hell out of
here?"

"I'm with you." Her whispered words held a hint of
bravado.

He pulled her closer, feeling her hands lock together
behind his neck. She was one hell of a lady. Dodging a burning
beam, he headed back the way he had come, only to find that the
wall was now ablaze, the window completely engulfed. Again fear
clutched at his belly. He spun around, frantically searching for
another way out.

Suddenly, with a rain of sparks and cinders, the wall
gave way, and through the smoke and haze, he could see the placid
night sky.

"Hold your breath, we're going to make a run for it,"
he yelled, pitching his voice so that he could be heard above the
increasing roar of the inferno. She nodded and buried her face in
the hollow at the base of his throat. Sucking in a breath full of
scalding smoke, he closed his eyes and ran.

The cool, night air felt almost frigid after the heat
in the gallery. Carefully, he let Cara down, reveling in the feel
of her body, warm and alive, sliding against his. They stood in the
glow of the flames, watching as men scurried to and fro, trying to
contain the fire.

She clung to him, tears coursing down her soot
streaked face. He wrapped his arms around her in an effort to
shield her from the fire's brutal annihilation of the gallery.
Stroking her hair, and murmuring nonsensical words, he tried to
soothe her, to ease her pain. Knowing, in his head, that nothing he
could say or do would bring back what she had lost. Knowing, in his
heart, that he still had to try.

*****

Cara sat on a cot in front of an ambulance,
drinking luke-warm coffee. Michael was nearby talking with a
fireman. He was an amazing man. Watching him wave a hand to
emphasize his point, she realized that no one would ever guess he'd
just recently popped into this century. He seemed to take
everything in stride.

She shivered and snuggled deeper into a borrowed
blanket. Her head ached and it hurt to swallow. But except for the
cut on her head, she'd avoided serious injury.